


My love

by captainhook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhook/pseuds/captainhook
Summary: John’s so exhausted at work, he starts hallucinating. Are those hallucinations, though? The situation culminates when the doctor has no strength to shower himself. Sherlock comes to the rescue.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Моя любовь](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/637765) by Апрель Алиса. 



Sherlock didn’t like John’s late-night phone calls. When he got the call himself, it meant an interesting and urgent case that they would be investigating together, but when the doctor was called out in the middle of the night, it meant that John would militarily dress up, run away and leave him alone.

The brilliant investigator wouldn’t admit to himself how much he now suffers from, the once-pleasant, loneliness. Before John came into his life, he did not recognise such a term, replacing it with solitude, independence, self-sufficiency, and openly laughed at those who had suffered from being away from someone. But now… every moment spent without John seemed lost to this life, flown into oblivion. 

At the same time, Sherlock couldn’t help but realise that his friend had his own life, his own job, and he couldn’t spend all of it with him like an unreasonable child hanging on to their mother’s skirt.

The detective woke up from a phone call and now he was listening to John getting dressed in a hurry, there he is, running out of the room. Will he stop by or not? He stopped by. 

Holmes quickly put a blanket over his head and tried to level his breath. He heard the doctor open the door, trying to tread quietly, walk to the bed and write some phrases on a notebook specifically for this purpose commissioned by Sherlock.

The detective held on until he heard the front door shut on the first floor. So he climbed out from the blanket and read the message. Although John was writing in an uncomfortable position, his handwriting was much better than that of the detective.

“There’s been an accident on the railroad. A lot of casualties. I might be gone for a couple of days. J.”

Sherlock sighed, lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. A couple of days? How exactly is he supposed to get through them? 

He almost jumped when his own phone vibrated. Thank heavens, if there’s something to occupy the brain, the heart can be ignored.


	2. John

John thought he was in hell. Dozens, hundreds of screaming, burnt bodies. And there’s no end to it. While he was running down the street to the hospital, all he could think about was getting there faster, now he regretted not even grabbing anything to eat, because neither food nor water was even available. It was some kind of day of doom. It’s been half a day, and they still weren't finished with sorting. 

This has never happened before. The collision of the two passenger trains is nonsense in itself, but there was also a concentration of some combustible gases nearby, which led to a massive explosion; night turned into day. And then — turned into a burning hell. And his branch ended up in the hospital. The screams were ringing in his ears, and everyone was running around in 'scalded cat' mode, but that wasn’t enough. He has to stop for a minute. He needs to take at least a sip of water… 

“John! John, stay awake, another car!” 

He didn’t know who shouted it, but it was clear that there would be no respite.

And then it happened for the first time. Everything went dark, the doctor felt the floor shaking beneath his feet and realised that he was about to fall and be trampled by the orderlies that were running with the next stretcher… But instead he found himself in a ring of thin but strong hands. These hands kept him from falling under heavy shoes with ribbed soles. The orderlies rushed by and John heard a whisper, right in his ear “here, sip this, my love.”

Shocked by this treatment, John dutifully drank from the given flank. It tasted like a latte with some exotic syrup. He hurriedly drank everything, and when he, finally, opened his eyes, he realised he was standing at the same sorting table surrounded by screaming doctors and patients. 

He didn’t have any time to think about what happened, but John found a moment to classify it as a delusion of fatigue. Although he did feel stronger after this hallucination.


	3. Sherlock

John didn’t come home two days later, or even three days later, but a week later. Although one couldn’t even call the thing that appeared in the doorway John. 

Sherlock was sitting in his favourite chair and reading a recently acquired book about poisons that only started their work after contact with tea and vanished from the body a couple of hours after they were ingested, when the door arduously opened and something appeared on the doorstep, most resembling a zombie. 

The zombie closed the door, leaned his back against it and slowly crawled to the floor. Sherlock was following this chain of events with great interest. When the struggle against gravity was finally lost, he rose, with a sigh of regret, put the book on the chair, and headed for the door.

“You need help?” 

The zombie shook his head no. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and headed to the kitchen, accompanied by the man’s stare… the meaning of which he decided not to interpret. However, it was soon discovered that he had left only to bring a stool and a cup.

The cup was brought to the guest’s lips, and, thank heavens, its contents were consumed without any complaints. 

“It’s tea,” explained Sherlock. “It’s very sweet and has some additives. Literally, resurrects the half-dead.” 

Sherlock then seated the guest on the chair he brought, and, disregarding the feeble attempts at protest, began to help him undress. After being finished with his outerwear, he didn’t stop. When he took care of the sweater and moved on to the belt, John found the strength to wheeze, which was remotely reminiscent of the words “don’t have to.” Although perhaps it was “I got it.” Or even “I need a shower.”

Sherlock thought the last version was closer to the truth.

“If you want a shower, then we go to shower,” he cheerfully reported, and went to the above-mentioned place. But if the doctor thought he was left alone, he didn’t know his neighbour well. Holmes left him only to take the chair to the bathroom and put it under the shower faucet. Then he came back and continued the process of ridding him of his pants. And since the forces were unequal, the detective won the fight.

“I’d carry you in my arms,” said Sherlock, looking the completely naked doctor up and down, “but unfortunately, I can’t. So come on, lean against my shoulder and slowly, carefully…”

“My love,” John heard again.


	4. John

It must have been another hallucination. John’s gotten used to them in the last week. Every time he appeared to be completely exhausted, he thought he felt a hug or heard those same words, “my love”, whispered in his ear. And sometimes he was given the same flask again, or even a sandwich, which clearly gave him strength. But it couldn’t have been real! It couldn’t have been… Sherlock. He couldn’t have been here in the hospital! No, it’s all in the imagination. He could still believe in the existence of these arms, this food, that was obviously filled with some energy pills, but those words… Holmes would never say that. 

And now. It’s all the illusions of an exhausted body and brain. The real John would never have let Sherlock strip him down, drag him into the bathroom, sit him on the stool, and now wash him. At first, he was just rinsed with water. Sherlock then squeezed a little shampoo into the palm of his hand and began to rub John’s head with tender, almost inconspicuous touches. Even though it wasn’t real, the doctor closed his eyes. When the hair was finished, the same soft fingers moved onto his face.

When John took the risk of opening his eyes, Holmes had already squeezed the shower gel onto a soft orange sponge and proceeded to rub first the neck, then the shoulders, the back. He’s not going to go in with the sponge up… 

No, he didn’t go in with the sponge. But the, slick with gel, fingers… 

He lurched on the stool. Sherlock was right there. The doctor put his nose in his shoulder. In the wet shirt. Seems to be the same one he gave the detective last Christmas. Yeah, synthesising hallucinations the brain takes real things and… 

The movements of Sherlock’s fingers cleared out all his thoughts out of his head.

“That’s it. It’s clean now. Lean against me and stand up.”

For some reason, John obeyed. Thin but strong hands. Thin but strong fingers, now they caressed his buttocks. And then they slipped between and gently went over, causing tremors all over the body.

“Done. Sit down.”

John exhaled and stared at Sherlock sitting at the bottom of the tub looking up at him. The detective had a sponge in his hand again, and he was washing the doctor’s legs with it. When he reached his feet, John twitched, — it tickled! 

Sherlock put aside the sponge. Took one of Watson’s feet and put it on his knee. The knee that was wrapped by the wet denim fabric. Glancing over his torso, covered by the moist cloth, John focused on the detective’s delicate hands, which caressed his ankle, whipping shower gel into foam. He gently began to massage the heel, the arch of the foot, and then — surprisingly gently — each toe.

Somehow John felt more ashamed than when the detective touched his dick.

“You… you shouldn’t, Sherlock.”

“Why? You’ve been up all this time, you have to stretch them. You don’t like it?”

“I like it but… but I’m embarrassed. There’s rough skin and calluses… besides…”

Sherlock moved on to the other foot.

“Really? I didn’t notice. If I didn’t notice something, then it’s not relevant. Relax and have fun, you really deserve it. And far better than what I’ve been able to give you so far.”

That was strange. It was beyond everything, unreal, fantastic. If only yesterday someone had told John Watson that he was going to sit completely naked in the shower and a completely wet Sherlock would give him a foot massage and look at him calmly with his extraordinary eyes… And he, John, would be contemplating that Sherlock’s initially gentle, and then stronger, and even slightly more painful, movements are actually making things easier. That this was the most beautiful, intimate, sensual and caring thing anyone had ever done for him… 

After finishing his feet, Sherlock performed another general cleansing and turned off the water. Then wrapped John in a big fluffy towel and just held him for a few moments. Once again, “my love” was whispered in his ear. 

John wasn’t surprised anymore. Later, when he wakes up somewhere on the couch, or even on the hospital floor, he’ll think about all the glitches, but now, leaning on Sherlock’s shoulder, it took all his power to put one foot in front of the other and walk to his room. There, he was seated on the bed, unraveled from the towel, dressed in a T-shirt and trousers he had been sleeping in recently.

“Relax,” said Sherlock, in the doorway.

John’s memory took a quick snapshot of him. Barefoot Sherlock, wearing soaking wet jeans and a virtually transparent shirt, black curls stuck to his forehead, and his figure surrounded by light and framed by the boards of the doorway, a picture of a dear moment that will never happen again.

The door closed quietly. John fell asleep almost immediately.


	5. Sherlock

Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, enjoying coffee and finishing the book about poisons and tea, when John showed up in the doorway with a sleepy, shabby face.

“Good morning,” the doctor muttered, looking round the familiar landscape.

“Morning,” the detective nodded. “I took the liberty of making you some oatmeal because you haven’t eaten properly for a week. And since you’re used to not eating properly for weeks, I added two eggs and some ham. And tea. I’m sorry, I ran out of coffee on this cup.”

John sat down and stared at the plate. He woke up in bed. In his own bed. Not in a hospital, blighted by glitches. So he did walk home last night. But that doesn’t mean yesterday’s bathing… 

The doctor looked up to the detective. He seemed to be completely consumed by the book. Should he ask him? John felt heat rushing to his head. Due to his tan, he didn’t blush as fast as Sherlock, but he felt that the blush was coming. Watson closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. It didn’t happen. It just couldn’t have been. But even if it did happen… What, actually, happened? He came home really knackered. And a friend just helped him clean up. He would have helped him, too, if the chance arose. He means not the chance, of course, but the need. Yes! If the need arose! 

Sherlock finished his coffee, got up, stretched his legs, and put the book on the chair with a sigh. And moved towards John. And sat on the floor at his feet, just like… He even had the same shirt on. It’s dry, but not ironed. The jeans are different, black. Perhaps the blue ones are still wet. What’s he up to now?

Sherlock took the spoon, scooped up some oatmeal and brought it to John’s mouth. 

“What are you doing? I can do it myself!”

“If you can, why have you been just sitting and looking at it for the past five minutes? It’ll get cold. Oatmeal and eggs are only good when they’re hot. Come on.”

In a state of shock, John let Sherlock put the spoon in his mouth. Then the second. He was too ashamed of himself to admit it but his hands pretended to be helpless and wanted to rest after those endless days… Having gone back there, in his head, to those halls, stinking of char and death, John shuddered. Sherlock, meanwhile, cut off a piece of the fried egg, stabbed it with the fork and waited for the doctor to swallow the oatmeal. The yolk fell on the table.

“Do you know what happened?” John asked, chewing away. 

“When you were working almost without food and sleep for a week? Sure. I was called in. Right after you. Investigation and everything.”

“So you,” the doctor swallowed the egg, “were there?! It wasn’t just in my imagination?!”

“I don’t know what you imagined, but, yeah, I was there. Caught you a couple of times. Made you eat a couple of times. Did everything on the run actually. It was hard to keep up with you in that vortex. It’s a trivial investigation. In terms of complexity. Not consequences.”

“What… what happened? How could that happen?!” 

Sherlock fed John another spoonful of oatmeal.

“There was no malicious intent. Standard carelessness. One overlooked something there, another randomly pressed something here, the third didn’t check the gas leak, just increased the pressure when the numbers went down. And it all came together. Killing and maiming a bunch of people who were completely innocent. They would have figured it out without me, but it didn’t look like an accident, so they contacted me. I explained what happened.”

John chewed the last piece of the fried egg and opened his mouth for oatmeal. He couldn’t taste it, but he knew it was going to give him strength.

“How many will be punished?”

Sherlock sighed and for a while just looked John in the face. John was embarrassed.

“What?”

“I could be wrong…”

“Did I hear you? The great and powerful Sherlock said ‘I could be wrong’? This has to be remembered. And written down. You will deny that you said that.”

“Of course. I don’t remember things like that. And neither should you.”

“Okay. Speak on.”

“By my reckoning… each one of the errors is a trifle. There are 100 of them a day. It’s just that at some point the critical mass was exceeded. You can’t find one person to blame for what happened. And each person’s guilt is negligible.”

“You mean… no one will be seriously punished?”

“By my calculations and projections. But… I could be wrong.”

John sighed and closed his eyes.

“I was allowed to rest for the day and recover. I’m going back tonight.”

Sherlock nodded. He grabbed the cup off the table, took a little sip, making sure it’s not too cold. And brought it to John’s mouth. 

“When you finish this, I’ll give you a massage. I’ll do secret oriental techniques. Hands, feet, shoulders. Then sleep. So you can survive the critical mass of shifts.”


	6. John

Sherlock finally got off the floor, picked up the dishes and went to the sink. And he didn’t pile them up as usual, he started washing them. Something truly unimaginable was happening!

“Sherlock,” John was looking at his back, “tell me, if those hospital situations weren’t my sick imagination, then… what happened in the bathroom yesterday… was true, too?”

Watson expected Holmes to say, with his usual lazy coldness: what happened yesterday? You were tired, I helped. Forget it! I forgot already.

But Sherlock didn’t say anything. He cleaned up the dishes. Wiped his hands. Turned around. Walked up to John and sat down on the floor looking up at the doctor. It started to get a little scary.

“John. I’m gonna try to explain something to you, and you try to understand me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Just listen till the end and try not to get offended.”

“Uh-huh.”

“John, you’re not the perfect person. Your looks are far from global standards. Your character is, too. You’re a loner and a bogeyman.”

The doctor wanted to object, but he remembered the request, and he held back. Let him say it all.

“And yet, for me… For me, no one is better than you. I like everything about you. Absolutely. I’ve often analysed the different details separately and everything together. I couldn’t find one thing that wasn’t liked or annoyed me. Or I’d like to change. I like the way you eat. How you sleep. The way you talk. Even the way you hit me.”

John couldn’t take it anymore — “only when you’re maddening to me!” — and immediately, with an apologetic gesture, he shut up.

Sherlock nodded. “See. I’m full of traits you don’t like. And that you want to change. You’re perfect for me. Or rather, as I interpreted it, you are my love.”

John almost snapped again, but didn’t say anything just because he couldn’t find the words.  _ So that was real? He really said it then? And he did it again now?! _

Sherlock carefully looked into the doctor’s face. Then put his hands on Watson’s knees.

“Hear me. I didn’t say I loved you. I said you were my love.”

John shook his head, waiting for him to continue.

“How do I explain this… All my life, I thought my emotions were turned off because they were useless. So I could think and analyse. And I was comfortable with that. But when I met you, they woke up. And they started making life difficult for me, slowly and steadily. Or filling me with life? Recently, I’ve come to this paradigm. All the basic feelings, such as compassion, benevolence, trust, and others that define humanity — for simplicity I joined into one concept: ‘love’. When we met, this love of mine… had been activated, came alive. It could breathe. All these feelings… They only come out when I’m with you. And I have these feelings only for you. You’re the source of my love. You’re my love. And yesterday, in the shower, I… for me, it wasn’t something embarrassing, forbidden. Because it’s you. You know?”

“I wish I could say that I do. But, I’m sorry… I don’t. But I’ll try. Not all at once, okay?"

“Of course,” Sherlock stood up, “lean on my shoulder, I’ll take you back to bed. I did promise a massage.”

“Wait. I’ll go on my own. I have to go to the bathroom. I don’t really need a chaperone there.”

Sherlock smiled, “I’m sure I’d like you there, too.”

“Jesus Christ, no way!” John rushed to the named place at full speed. 

A little while later, when John was lying in bed with a pleasant pain from the massage, Sherlock smoothed out the blanket on top of the man and checked to see if the curtains were tightly closed.

“Just don’t worry. You don’t owe me anything, and are under no obligation to do anything. After all…“

“Sherlock… I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have one more open-ended shift, and… I’m not ready to have this conversation right now. I have to survive your other revelation first.”

“Of course. Rest.” 

Sherlock walked out of the room. Closed the door silently. The doctor heard the detective leaning backwards against it and standing there until his cell phone rang.

“Yes?” the cold, businesslike voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. Not the person who was just talking to John. “Lestrade, are you sure? Where? Okay. I’m coming. Wait.”

John heard the whole conversation. Departing footsteps. He didn’t hear it anymore, but he imagined Holmes throwing on a cloak, carelessly tying a scarf. The slam of the closing door. He was anxious to jump up and follow him, but his body was simply unable to do so and duty called for tomorrow to continue to clean up the consequences of others' mistakes.

_ I didn’t say I loved you, I said you were my love. And you are my life.  _ That’s what John wanted, but didn’t tell him. Because he was too scared, too confused, too unprepared. But he’s gonna pull himself together. At their next meeting, he’s gonna tell that crazy detective how much he means to John. How important he is to him. How… loved.


End file.
